


Eccedentesiast

by dandelionlust



Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Jiyong wants to belong, M/M, Mostly Description, kinda vague descriptions of real events, mostly following true events, slight gtop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 11:08:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14591715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionlust/pseuds/dandelionlust
Summary: Eccedentesiast (n.) someone who hides pain behind a smile.What was so special about him anyway?  He was just a neighborhood kid from Seoul, with big dreams and a fragile heart.





	Eccedentesiast

**Author's Note:**

> What was so special about him anyway? He was just a neighborhood kid from Seoul, with big dreams and a fragile heart.

Eccedentesiast

**(n.)** _someone who hides pain behind a smile_

 

It was in the bright mornings and low-lit afternoons where he’d shine the brightest.  His voice echoed through the studio spontaneously, shouting a greeting or a string of particularly nasty profanities depending on the ambiance of the bustling building they called their second home.  He was a hard-worker-- sometimes  _ too  _ hard-- which you could figure out by the only slightly visible purplish circles underneath his eyes, expertly concealed by some fast-moving makeup artist and her nimble-yet-worn fingers.  Or, if he was too pressed for time, he’d hide them behind a pair of his round, John Lennon-esque sunglasses. He hid most things behind the latest trend, whether it be a flashy Gucci coat or some oddly colored yet perfectly acceptable Balenciagas.  He never stepped foot anywhere without looking his best.  _ Everything  _ had to be color coordinated, and if they hadn’t learned that early on they would’ve figured it out pretty quickly with the way he threw fits whenever whatever shirts their managers had picked out for them didn't match the latest hair color he was sporting.

He would sit, perched on the edge of one of the plush couches in their green room-- _ never  _ on the seat itself-- and watch as people bustled by, too caught up in the task at hand to notice anything he was ever doing.  Most were told to ignore his oddities anyway, they were passable since he was their major source of income. Sometimes when he sat there on that couch, he thought about things like that.   _ Was he really just a source of revenue, or was he more than that?  Was he just a sewn together bag of emotions and skin with some neon hair dye sprinkled on top?  God, at least the neon reminded people that he existed.  _  Yet… everyone knew he existed.  Everyone knew  _ part  _ of him existed.  He was a whirlwind on stage, a chaotic storm that swirled around and destroyed everything in its path.  People loved that storm. He could hear it every time the crowd cheered his name, his  _ real _ name, yet… it sounded fake when it left their mouths.   _ How could they address him by his name when they didn't know anything about him?   _ No one knew anything about him, save for a few people who’d pried it out of him while he cried on their bathroom floor, drunk and out of his own mind.  

He liked to think he was a private person, which always shocked the people he found himself drawn to like a moth to a flame.  They expected something larger than life, someone cussing and throwing shit around like a reckless toddler. Of course, he had his moments, but… the  _ real  _ him was different.  He found very little people enjoyed the real him.  He saw it in the trail of men and women who walked away from his doorstep, month after month, year after year.  He’d become numb to their slaps and their cold words, and decided instead to plaster a smile onto his face, shoving whatever feeling he had left deep into the core of his body, praying every second that it’d never resurface.

Selfishness burned through his veins, surged through his bloodstream with a fiery passion, constantly whispering in his ear that he needed more,  _ more _ .  He’d slip himself the best lines, cut others, shape and mold himself into more than just the center.  He  _ was  _ the group.  They were just the backup vocals.  He knew, when he lay in bed at night, staring up into deep black nothingness, that what he did was wrong.  He valued each and every one of them… they were his brothers, his life. But every time he went to tell them, his tongue seemed to swell up, his mouth locked up and his brain switched to some automatic mode where all he did was boast about his own accomplishments.  He saw the look in their eyes, that glossy sheen that filmed over them when he jumped around, talking about his latest ambassadorship or fashion line. He knew they wanted just as much as he had, and they didn’t understand why  _ he  _ was the one who got the special treatment.  Really, why  _ did  _ he get the special treatment?   _ What was so special about him anyway?   _ He was just a neighborhood kid from Seoul, with big dreams and a fragile heart.

He’d never experienced loss until that night, when the hospital called him, saying that he was the last on the list, but he needed to be there right away.  Staring down into the sunken, sad face of his best friend terrified him. His shaky breathing combined with the silent sobbing of his family in the background was almost too much for him to bear.  This,  _ this  _ was his best friend… the man who’d always put everything on the line for him, yet he got nothing in return.  Just like in a drama, he’d bent over the low metal bars on the side of the bed, clutching onto the other’s hospital gown, knuckles bright white and fingers aching.  His tiny frame shook, and although he could hear the rest of the group silently filter in behind him, none of them stepped forward. Within minutes he’d tuned them out again, the tears running down his cheeks soaking into the fragile cotton his friend was adorned in.   _ That could've been his funeral shroud… if they’d been seconds more he wouldn’t be here anymore…  _ His breaths became hitched, his whole body tingled, his eyes were shut so tight he could see small colored dots dancing behind his eyelids.  He’d ignored his friend’s pain, blocked it out and distanced himself because he was too afraid that  _ he’d  _ be found out.  He’d let the selfishness crash over him in waves, afraid of the repercussions on  _ him _ and  _ his _ career instead of worrying about the wellbeing of his friends.  He didn’t want to turn around. If he turned around he knew he’d see their cold faces, their judging eyes.  He’d become their enemy when he was supposed to be their leader. Their  _ friend _ .  He stayed, locked in that position until one of them rested a warm hand on his shoulder, pulling him gently away from his best friend’s unconscious frame and wrapping him in their arms, in all of their arms.  Their tears mixed together like some pitiful cocktail, and they were the poor victims who were drunk off of a few sips.  _ He wasn’t alone.  No matter how much he’d fuck up, they’d always be there to catch him when he fell.   _ He wanted to ask himself,  _ why?  Why?  _ But he knew he’d never get the real answer.  It was easier just to keep quiet, to cling on just a little tighter and pray they wouldn’t let go faster than what he was ready for.

He forced a smile on his face as he squinted against the bright lights of the stage, positioning himself in front of the microphone he dared to call a friend.  His breath hitched as he gazed out across the sea of golden crowns, of adoring voices shouting that distant and foreign name.  _ Who  _ was  _ he exactly?   _ He’d become something like half-mixed pound cake batter, half solid ingredients and half runny liquid, never quite resting long enough to get close to any sort of cake.  He greeted all of their loving cheers, a smile spreading its way onto his face without him knowing, as the bass from the guitar and the pounding on drum sets filled his ears.   _ He wanted to sing forever.  He never wanted to leave the stage.  Who was he if he wasn’t up there, floating around like a bird set free from its confining cage?   _ Yet, he knew the night would be over and he’d be returning to his large, empty, cold house to say a forlorn goodbye to everything he’d ever known.   _ How did one find themselves if they were ripped away from what had raised them all those many years?   _ As he filled the stadium with passion, tears he didn’t even know he had left in him began to flow, streaming down his face in a very unprofessional manner as he gave every single one of them his all.  He wanted to memorize every single one of their faces, for they were the personification of freedom. They were  _ his  _ freedom.  Suddenly, the archangel on his neck didn’t seem very all-powerful anymore.  Nothing could stop him from following the string of fate that led him like a blind man through his life.  As the last spotlight shut off, entrenching the stage in darkness, he still stood, staring out at his freedom as it flooded through the exit gates.

His foot tapped gently against the rubber mat in the backseat of their car, making a soft rapping noise that filled the silence.  His left hand gripped the wine bottle he’d cradled to his chest like a baby, and his right was enclosed in his best friend’s, wrapped so tightly around the larger hand that he could feel his own pulse.  They’d tried to laugh and make jokes, but found that the whole scenario was so odd that they’d fell back into their comfortable silence, a silence they’d cherished since that night in the overly bright lights of the hospital.  Silence was better than meaningless conversation, anyways. As the car rolled to a stop he could feel his heart start to beat faster. A warm hand made its way to his shoulder and he instantly forced himself to relax. They stared at each other in complete silence for a minute before laughing, and he threw himself into the arms that had always been waiting for him.  He clung on as tightly as he could, inhaled that musty cologne for as long as he could, wrapped his fingers around that hair as gently as he could, and cried. Gentle sobs echoed through the small space, and soon, both their tears were mingling together, making small wet spots on each other’s clothes. He received a warm kiss on the lips, and he wanted to savor it, remember that feeling for as long as he could.  He  _ needed  _ to remember it.  He pinched the other’s cheek once, smiling warmly just inches away from his face, before popping open the car door, whispering a short goodbye and letting his idiotic managers pull him away one last time.   _ He never knew when enough was enough. _

The cameras clicked and flashed as he walked through the towering gates, but this time he didn’t smile.  He didn’t do anything.  _ How could he?   _ He’d been ripped from his home, from everything he’d ever known, he’d ever loved… now, he was alone.  And he was  _ terrified. _  The tremor in his hands was minimal, but noticeable.  The men walking around him looked as though they  _ belonged  _ here, tall with broad shoulders and toughened eyes.  Compared to them he was a pixie, flitting around in a forest that wasn’t his own.  He wished so desperately that he could run back to the car, run back to where he felt safe and halfway decent.  He glanced back, but the car had already left. He was alone. He took a breath.

The cameras had stopped after the iron door clanged shut behind him, and he felt extremely empty without his bodyguards towering behind him.  He was just… a normal neighborhood boy. The little boy who sat on his concrete steps, hoping and praying that he could rise up from the nothing that he was and just be  _ something. _  But he  _ was  _ something, even without the flashy clothes and the entourage and the screaming fans.

“Kwon Jiyong,” he said, straightening his back.   _ Kwon Jiyong. _ __

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, relieved that my first work is finally posted! Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
